


Of What May Come Hereafter

by captainoflifeandlemons



Category: All the Wrong Questions - Lemony Snicket, Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: (not putting them under the character tags unless/until they play a significant role), But also, Cleo Knight - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Frank Denouement - Freeform, Gen, I'll tag more characters/relationships as they come up in the story, It's gonna be a wild ride, Jake Hix - Freeform, Journalism, Lizzie Haines, Ornette Lost - Freeform, Pip Bellerophon - Freeform, Squeak Bellerophon - Freeform, The Daily Punctilio (is the worst), Train Rides and Not Murder, brief appearances by: - Freeform, but some people don't show up for a while so I'll keep it under wraps for now, post-ASOUE, post-ATWQ, pre-ASOUE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2018-08-10 12:04:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7844191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainoflifeandlemons/pseuds/captainoflifeandlemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am tired of tears and laughter,<br/>And men that laugh and weep;<br/>Of what may come hereafter<br/>...<br/>And everything but sleep.<br/>-Algernon Charles Swinburne, "The Garden of Proserpine"</p><p>Moxie Mallahan travels to the City in search of a mother who left her years before and the young man she believes can find her. Decades later, Beatrice Baudelaire washes ashore in Stain'd-by-the-Sea in pursuit of her adopted siblings. Sometimes, they discover, family is not a thing that can be easily defined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

As a general rule, stories that begin on boats do not end well. They often seem as though they will not end at all, dragging on and on until suddenly the words stop all at once, often to dump the struggling cast into the sea. This usually makes for a relieving end to an otherwise tedious narrative, but to Beatrice the prospect of being thrown to the churning waves was more of a nightmare than a relief. 

The lightning spotlighted her once more, and the thunder responded with a grating salvo. She gave the  nearest rope a haphazard tug. Her sailing experience was too limited to handle a storm of this magnitude. In all honesty, her sailing experience was too limited to handle a small lake on a calm day. A skilled inventor might have been able to patch the tears and holes slowly encompassing the boat. A skilled researcher might have known how to navigate to the nearest bit of land. A skilled chef might have been able to replenish the dwindling supply of food with fresh fish or seaweed. But Beatrice was not an inventor, or a researcher, or a chef. She wasn't Violet Baudelaire, or Klaus Baudelaire, or Sunny Baudelaire. She wasn't really a Baudelaire at all. 

With the weight of that thought—and the weight of the water pooling around her shoes—Beatrice sank.

 

* * *

 

The best thing that Moxie could say about the train ride was that it hadn't ended in murder. 

Her luggage was misplaced. The departure was delayed by over an hour. Halfway through the trip, she was mistaken for someone else by the engineer and challenged in hand-to-hand combat.  It was as though the forces that be were imploring her to stay in Stain'd-by-the-Sea, and Moxie was inclined to think that she should have listened. 

But no one had died, which was a twofold improvement over her last journey on _The Thistle of the Valley_. No one had died. 

Dragging a suitcase behind her with one hand, she pulled out a map with the other. She'd been to the newspaper's office before, as well as her soon-to-be apartment building, when visiting town for her interview. But already that felt like years ago, and the snow now dusting the city inhibited familiarity. 

"Lost?"

Looking up, Moxie blinked against the wind. For a wild moment she expected to see her associate standing there—how many times had they greeted each other that way, with deadpan voices edged in humor? _Excuse me, ma'am, are you lost? No, Ornette, that would be you_ —but the illusion grew brittle and shattered in the chill of the air. Ornette was miles away. The speaker was a woman maybe a couple years her senior, although perhaps they were the same age and she simply gave off that impression.  She held a newspaper against her face as though it could block out the cold. 

Moxie realized she had yet to give an answer. "Not exactly. More...uncertain where to go."

"And here I was, thinking that that was the definition of being lost." The woman grinned, the expression half-coaxing a smile from Moxie before the wind tore it away. 

"I just got into town. I need to drop my things off, but I have a meeting at one..." Moxie shrugged, a vague gesture that she hope conveyed the quandary that was "real-world scheduling." 

The woman nodded; apparently, at least some of Moxie's intended meaning broke through. "Here for work, then, not pleasure?" 

Moxie waved to the newspaper in the woman's grasp. "I'm a journalist. I was offered a position with _The_   _Daily Punctilio_. But maybe I should go there before my apartment, I'm not sure if I can make it back in time, walking in this weather—"

"There's an easy enough solution for that. Don't walk." The woman reached down and snagged Moxie's suitcase as she spoke. "It's a strange world we live in, isn't it? I've been with the _Punctilio_ for nine months now. It would be my pleasure to assist a future colleague. I've got a car. I'll drive you to your apartment, and then we can head in to work together." She waved her newspaper as Moxie protested, clearing the air of any objections and stepping towards the curb. "It's nothing, really. Just give me the address."

Moxie opened her mouth to demand her bag back, to say that she wasn't about to get into a stranger's vehicle, that she shouldn't even be here and might as well wait around for the next train out. Instead, she found herself murmuring a quiet thank you. The woman's grin widened as she helped Moxie in, and the easy chatter of her voice carried the journalist through the twisted veins of the city. 

After hearing Moxie's new address, the woman raised an eyebrow (although her eyes were still directed at the road ahead). "So, you're down in the stationery district? It'll be easy for you to pick up some business cards, then." 

There was a brief pause as Moxie tried to decipher this statement. "Do you need me to order some for you?"

The woman's laugh sounded the way her smile looked. "No, I mean for you. I'd like a name and number to put to your face."

With a feeling of deep vindication (Squeak had teased her about her the business cards for years), Moxie handed the driver one of her cards. "Luckily for you, I came prepared."

They were at a stop, and the woman glanced down to read the narrow print. "Moxie Mallahan. Now there's a name for a journalist."

She passed the card, along with her own name, back to Moxie. As they pushed through the winter air into the city's heart, Moxie reflected that maybe this venture was more than just another in a long line of mistakes. Lost though she might be, she wasn't alone. She closed her eyes in a brief moment of gratitude for the walls of the vehicle that stood between her and the wind, the memory of travel unmarred by murder, and her newfound associate Eleanora Poe.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice wakes up to find herself in a suprisingly non-aquatic and non-threatening position. Meanwhile, Moxie's purpose in the City is revealed as her friendship with Eleanora Poe takes off.

 

The air smelled of salt, books, and tea. It took Beatrice a moment to reconcile this fact with the scents of salt, wind, and imminent death that permeated her memory. She blinked, half expecting the burn of seawater against her lashes. 

"Kellar!" Eyes wide now. Across the room—she was in a room—a woman with tousled hair and a newspaper under one arm was calling through a doorway. "She's up."

From the door came a wisp of steam followed by a mug and an arm wearing a mottled grey sleeve. The arm and sleeve were attached to a middle-aged man, or at least a mostly middle-aged man; his hair gave off the appearance that it believed itself to be a good deal younger. The overall effect was rather endearing, but Beatrice was too dazed to appreciate it properly as the man placed the tea on the table before her.

The woman turned to Beatrice, concern etched into her features as clearly as if they were an article in the paper she held. "My name is Moxie Mallahan. Don't worry, Beatrice. You're safe now."

 

* * *

 

 The office shouldn't have seemed so barren, Moxie knew, considering that she had grown up in a ghost town. But devoid though Stain'd-by-the-Sea was of buildings, people, and—well, life—it had always been full of memories. The room she faced now was empty even of that.

"I know, it's still a bit drab." Eleanora's voice, a charismatically breezy construct, seemed to contradict the words. "But once you've been here for a few weeks, it'll start to feel like home." The woman set down a shopping bag of desk decor that she'd insisted on taking Moxie out to buy. "And not just because you'll feel like you're living in this place, although they do tend to overwork the staff."

Moxie shook her head in amusement, stray pieces of hair hiding her smile. After her meeting with the _Punctilio_ that first day in the city, she'd found Eleanora waiting for her. And while Moxie had insisted on transporting herself for her first day at work, Eleanora had ducked in twice "just to say hello!" Moxie had been with the paper for a week now, and Eleanora always made sure to drop by her office (which was more of a closet than an office, but Moxie hadn't expected even that much). The previous afternoon, the woman had pulled Moxie out after work to find some things to brighten up the work space. Moxie wasn't one for knick-knacks, but Eleanora was exactly the opposite.

"So tell me, Mox," Eleanora began, taking things from the bag and placing them around the room with a dizzying efficiency, "what brought you out here? From what I can tell, you had a decent setup in that town of yours. Running a paper, even if it's a local paper, is a good gig."

Moxie balanced a paperweight in the palm of her hand. "I've only signed on for a year. I'm...looking for something, and I thought I might find it here."

"Is that something why you've been spending so much time going through the archives?"

If Moxie's silence wasn't answer enough, the cardboard box on her floor of old newspapers borrowed from the records department was. Eleanora didn't push the matter, instead nudging the box aside to reach Moxie's desk chair. 

"You know," she commented, lacing a cushion onto the seat, "I used to work in the archives, for the first few months I was here. I was tasked with getting everything in some sort of order. I've found that the best way of finding things is to approach them from an angle. Don't just look for what—or who—you're looking for. Look for what you need to find them."

She shot Moxie her characteristic smile, and for the first time Moxie could fully see the intelligence twisted through it. For all her talking, Eleanora was a keen listener. She was a reporter at heart; she observed.

"Anyways, I'd better get back to my own desk. I'll see you for lunch tomorrow!"

Moxie didn't even hear her own response. She stared at the box as though it were another receptacle entirely—the one from Greek mythology, maybe, or the experiment in physics and animal cruelty. Something had just clicked in her mind and any loud or sudden movements would scatter the thought. Slowly, carefully, as if balanced on a thin plank suspended rather higher in the air than is advised, she stood. 

Right now, there was work to do. She would do the job she had been hired for. And once she got off, she would do the job she had come here for. _Find what you need to get what you need._

What she needed was her mother. And what she needed to find her was someone who excelled in finding things too long since lost, in unravelling mysteries that had too long since unravelled. She needed a detective who wasn't a detective. She needed someone who she hadn't seen in years but who was almost certainly somewhere in this city (unlike her mother, who there was no trace of).

What she needed was her mother. What she needed to find her was Lemony Snicket.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice holds her life story in her hands, literally, while Moxie's hunt for Lemony Snicket reveals itself to be more dangerous than she first anticipated. One of the girls comes face to face with a figure from her past—but not the one she expected to find.

"You've read it, then?" 

Beatrice nodded, or at least she assumed she did. Her mind didn't have a square inch of space to spare for thinking about anything but the weight of the volume pressed into her hands. _A Series of Unfortunate Events_. It was larger than the version she'd read, thicker, with annotations scribbled in the margins: a broken scrawl of green ink, neat but faded pencil marks, and over all of it the deep-black scribbles of someone who wasn't used to holding a pen. Someone who preferred to type, maybe. 

It wasn't until Kellar walked back into the main room of the lighthouse (that had been a surprise, learning her rescuers lived in a lighthouse, although she supposed it made sense—what other sort of plucky heroes would you expect to save shipwrecked children?) that Beatrice managed to look back up. "So this is how you knew who I was."

Moxie gently tugged the book from the girl's grip. "Not at first, but yes. That, and...you look like your mother."

"You knew my—"

"I knew a lot of people, once," the woman said, cutting her off. Her smile was worn thin, faded in patches and threadbare. A smile that was always as sad as it was content. "But my story is a long one. Come on. There are some people Kellar and I want to introduce you to."

 

* * *

 

The library was pressed between two office buildings, unnecessarily ornate bookends on a street most city residents never traveled. It was the fourth library Moxie had visited in the past week, and the last one on her list. From here she would move onto theaters, book stores, concert halls, museums—anywhere she could think of where Lemony Snicket or someone who knew him might be. 

With that thought fixed firmly in mind, she opened the door with rather more force than intended. It slammed against the wall with an audible thud, summoning up a cloud of dust and an irritated librarian.

"I'm so sorry," Moxie breathed, fighting the urge to duck her head as her cheeks flushed. "I wasn't trying to do that."

In a tone that suggested otherwise, the librarian insisted it was quite all right. "Is there anything I can help you with?" he asked, clearly hoping the answer would be no.

"Actually, yes." Moxie was a journalist. When her mother left Stain'd-by-the-Sea, she had pored over her memories, analyzing each moment for a sign of when things first began to disintegrate. When Lemony left Stain'd-by-the-Sea, she had pored over books and journals and cryptic notes filed away where they should not have been. She didn't try to bring him back. She just wanted answers. And what she had learned (about him, about VFD) just might lead her to other answers. The answers that really mattered. "I'm looking for information on an author, actually. He wrote a book I'm quite fond of, and I believe he resides in this city. L. Snicket."

The response was immediate and bewildering as the librarian jumped towards her with an unexpected agility. For one wild moment, Moxie thought he was about to embrace her. Then she exhaled and felt the knife pressed against her side. 

"And what," whispered the librarian, "is the title of the book?"

Codes, encryptions, secret messages. Moxie had read volumes on the subject. But VFD employed countless such methods of communication, assuming the librarian was even a member of the organization. Assuming the organization was still functional—what information Moxie had suggested it was consumed by infighting and constantly been edging towards collapse. But the sensation of metal against cloth against skin was a more pressing case of "edging towards collapse," and there was no time to consider any longer. Moxie said the first Snicket-sounding thing that came to mind.

" _The World Is Quiet Here_ —" and, because she felt it lacked something, "— _a memoir_."

The librarian took a step back, weapon no longer visible. None of the library's other patrons seemed to have noticed a thing. "Well, what do you know? That one is a favorite of mine as well."

***

Two hours later, Moxie was standing outside of a shabby apartment building towards the edge of the city, clutching a scrap of paper in her hands. The paper wasn't the address she had followed—the librarian, Frank, had made her memorize that—but rather a list of reading recommendations. In the end, she supposed, a librarian was a librarian, secret organizations aside. 

She tucked the paper into her pocket for later, making a note to read the one where the murderer confesses a quarter of the way in again even though she had already done so twice. For now, there was business to attend to. Frank (who had turned out to be quite nice, if overly cautious and easily aggravated) had warned her that just because Lemony was staying in this building when last they spoke didn't mean that he still was. The man hadn't heard from any of the Snickets in months. Apparently VFD was struggling to maintain composure as a schism from its past deepened. Regardless, he explained, the building was almost certainly being watched. Hopefully by Lemony's friends; more likely by his enemies; almost certainly by those who could be counted in either category.

She walked around the building, just another shadow on a street where the closest light had flickered out and the dull glow of the apartment windows never seemed to reach the ground. Lemony's window was on the fifth story. She counted up and over to where his room should be, pulled her hair back from her face, and began to climb.

The window was locked (of course), but like the man she was looking for, Moxie had developed a talented for breaking into places. And if the process took her longer than usual five floors above the ground, well, there was no one to witness her shaking. The window opened. She closed her eyes and slipped down the proverbial rabbit hole.

Her eyes fluttered open as her feet thumped on the floor. 

The room was empty.

It was as if the waters of her hometown had been siphoned off into Moxie; she had been carrying their weight for years, and now the dam had broken and the sea had come to reclaim its land. The tears dragged her down with them as they fell, trying to drown her in the wealth of sorrow long repressed. No Lemony, no volunteers, not even a desk or a bookshelf. Just space. Too much open space; the world would eventually get in.

 _Click_.

The sound of the door unlocking rushed through like a cold wind, freezing the tears and the gulp in her throat and allowing the automatic movements of fear and experience to take over. In half of a second, her breathing had quieted to a shadow of sound. In three seconds, she was across the room. In four and a half, she would have been out the window; but at four, the door opened and a voice spoke.

"You're not Lemony Snicket."

It was true. Lemony Snicket wouldn't have had to break into his own office, most days. Lemony Snicket wouldn't feel as though the City had swallowed him. Lemony Snicket wouldn't be crying. Of course, Lemony Snicket had made the mistake of trusting the figure who had just entered time and time again. 

Moxie was not Lemony Snicket.

Eight seconds now. She rubbed a hand over her face, pulled the hat down as though it could cover the redness of her eyes, and stood. She didn't have to face the door. She didn't need to. She knew that voice, even after all the years that had gone by. Everything from Lemony's time in Stain'd-by-the-Sea was impressed into her mind. Or at least into her nightmares. 

"Ellington Feint."

By the time she spoke the name aloud, the girl was gone. Twenty seconds. Moxie turned to the window.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice and Moxie pay a visit to the owner of a local diner, while Moxie Mallahan confronts Ellington Feint.

The first impression Beatrice had of the diner was that it was old (some might substitute in "vintage"), with a front faded enough from time that no paint coat could hide its years. Her second impression was that it was brand new, all LED lighting and modern appliances. Her third, lasting impression was that it felt the same way the lighthouse had. Warm. Safe. The way she remembered home feeling, even if home was three people who were miles and miles from where she stood. 

The man behind the counter leaned over as he saw Moxie, an easy smile stretching across his face. "Here comes trouble. Tell me, who wrote _The Wind in the Willows_?"

"If I don't answer, am I barred from this establishment?" Moxie's eyebrow arched with her response, but the corner of her mouth was twitching. 

"Kenneth Grahame," Beatrice said after a beat. The man's smile widened, a feat she wouldn't have thought possible.

Stepping from behind the counter, he made his way towards them. "Egads, Moxie! Don't tell me you and Kellar have finally adopted a kid."

Moxie gave a derisive snort. "I think those children of yours are all that this town can handle. No, Kellar and I found her out on the water last night. This is Beatrice Baudelaire."

For the briefest of moments, the man's smile slipped. "Well, then. I suppose I'd better call the others."

 

* * *

 

Ellington Feint was looking for Snicket. And given her track record where Lemony was concerned, that meant that he was in trouble. Which shouldn't have worried Moxie—Snicket was always in trouble—but it did. Because when he was in Stain'd-by-the-Sea, she had always been in trouble right along with him, always there to help pull him out. 

That was years ago, though. Lemony had other associates; he had his entire organization. Someone was watching his back for him. Someone had to be. 

And as for Ellington—Moxie had enough things to deal with already. Whatever Ellington was up to, the best course of action would be to stay far, far away. Ellington would avoid Moxie and Moxie would avoid Ellington and when she found Lemony they'd figure it out together. Just like they used to. Just like when they were kids. 

It was a good plan. At least, until Moxie opened her apartment door and saw Ellington Feint leaning against the wall, waiting.

***

Moxie's first instinct was to run, but this was her home. Or at least, as close as she was going to get to home while in the city. If one of them was about to leave, it wasn't going to be Moxie. And as much trouble as Ellington was, she had never directly threatened anyone in Stain'd-by-the-Sea (not physically, at least). And...and then there was everything that had happened on the night Snicket left. Whatever Ellington had done, she hadn't deserved that. 

So instead of bolting out the door, Moxie stepped past the other woman into the kitchen. "Can I get you anything?"

Ellington's eyebrows shot up, which was truly a sight to behold, and Moxie gleaned no small degree of pleasure from the knowledge that at least she wasn't the only one thrown off by the situation. "Excuse me?"

"It's been a long night for me, and I worked through my lunch break. Whatever it is you're up to, whatever you've broken into my apartment to say or steal, fine, but I need something to eat." False bravado, Moxie had found, was always easiest when you'd missed a few meals and didn't get enough sleep. You were too tired to be anything but direct.

Moxie filled her kettle with water and placed it on the stove. "I'm making tea. I know you're a coffee person, but..." She shrugged. "Frankly, I don't care."

Ellington was still leaning against the wall, silent. A few times she opened her mouth, but no words came out. She stared at the floor. Moxie stared at her. Neither spoke.

A screech rang through the apartment and both girls jumped. Moxie turned off the stove, slamming a mug down on the counter. "Okay, you win at this game. Why are you looking for Lemony? And why are you in my home?"

Ellington met her eyes, briefly. "I'm sorry. I was surprised to see you in building; I shouldn't have run off. I knew you were in town. I have...contacts who keep tabs on that sort of thing. They gave me your address."

"So you broke in, naturally, instead of waiting outside and knocking like a reasonable person." Moxie wasn't sure which concerned her more; that Ellington had contacts "keeping tabs" on her, or that she was considered the sort of person one kept tabs on. 

Despite her earlier apology, Ellington looked thoroughly unabashed. "I didn't, actually. The door was unlocked. And regardless, I thought I'd be gone by the time you returned. I assumed that if Lemony wasn't home, he might be here."

Moxie was about to argue the first point—of course she had locked her door, she always locked her door—when the second one hit her. "So you are looking for Snicket!" Vindictively, Moxie poured hot water over her tea bag. As vindictively as it was possible to pour tea, that is. 

With a shake of her head, Ellington dislodged these thoughts. "Yes. But not the one you're thinking of."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice is introduced to the Association of Associates; Moxie and Ellington meet to discuss their search.

“The others,” Beatrice discovered, were a motley crew: two librarians who arrived in a taxi, two actresses who arrived in a fire truck, and the town’s mayor, who arrived in what Beatrice was assured was “a dilemma,” although she didn’t see how a car that had clearly been renovated to run on green energy could cause much of a problem for anyone. They crowded into the diner, and its owner, who introduced himself as Jake, slung a “closed” sign up in the window before disappearing into the kitchen.

“Is this everyone?” Jake called. “I want to make sure I’ve got enough appetizers.”

“It ought to be. Kellar won’t be here until later, and your competition is still out of town.” Moxie had laid claim to one of the stools near the counter, and she motioned now for Beatrice—who had been hovering uncertainly on the edge of the group after receiving a round of handshakes and (oddly enough) business cards—to take the seat next to her.

One of the actresses, whose card also labelled her as an artist and stage technician, spoke. “So tell us, Moxie. What elaborate scheme have you embroiled us all in this time?”

Moxie gave an exaggerated huff. “Why do you assume that there’s a scheme? There’s no scheme.”

“There’s always a scheme.” This came from one of the librarians. Pecuchet, not Squeak; a peculiar pair of aliases, although Beatrice assumed that the latter was a nickname. Then again, perhaps “Pecuchet” was as well. The name seemed almost too large for the man, like a coat he was trying on to see if he had grown into it yet.

Head shaking in resignation, Moxie continued. "Fine. But if it’s a scheme, it’s an honest one. Beatrice is searching for her family. I thought—”

And here, just for a moment, the woman seemed to falter.

“I thought we could help her with that.”

* * *

 

There was a cat sketched in black chalk outside of the Punctilio when Moxie left work, so she made her excuses to Eleanora and trudged through the city until she reached the corner café where Ellington was waiting. Two weeks after their unexpected reunion, this was the pattern they had fallen into. During the day, Moxie worked and Ellington investigated. During the night, Moxie investigated and Ellington...well, Moxie didn't know and didn't particularly care to. She didn't _sleep_ , certainly; the circles under her eyes were even more defined than Moxie's.

In the evenings, at the intersection of day and night and at the intersection of 7th Street and Barista Boulevard, they met. Not every evening; there was a limit to the number of  uncomfortable silences Moxie could endure per week, and most days neither woman had any real news to share. It had been a few days, in fact, since Moxie had heard anything from Ellington. She had almost begun to worry (although Ellington Feint hardly seemed like the sort of person who needed Moxie's concern).

When she arrived, Ellington was already waiting, two mugs in front of her. She pushed one over as Moxie slid into the booth across from her.

Moxie wrinkled her nose automatically. Ellington was always the first to reach the café, and she always ordered black coffee, which Moxie always refused to drink. It wasn’t until the steam had curled its way in lazy spirals up past the brim of her hat that she took in the smell. “Tea? From you? What’s the occasion?”

“I thought that the celebratory toast might have more weight if I wasn’t the only drinking,” Ellington answered, holding her own cup just below her chin as if she wanted to commit the scent to memory before sipping.

Despite herself, Moxie’s heartbeat quickened. “What are we celebrating?”

“A lead. What other victory is there for a detective and an investigative journalist?”

It was lucky that Moxie hadn’t actually picked up her tea yet, or she would have spilled it. “You found one of them? Lemony, or—Kit?”

 _Kit Snicket_. The name still felt strange, like walking into your sitting room to find that it had been painted a different color while you were gone. It seemed impossible that in all the time she’d spent with Lemony, she’d never thought to ask about his family. Moxie had always just assumed that he was alone. So many of Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s residents were. Of course, there was more than one way to be alone.

She should have asked. He should have _told_ her, should have explained the story that Ellington passed on in Moxie’s kitchen that first night, should have trusted her enough to let her carry some of his burdens before he drowned in them—but still, she should have asked. Maybe now she would get the chance to.

Ellington reached into her bag (faded green fabric, the only color she had on her) and placed a photograph on the table. “Not yet. But I may know where one of them is supposed to be tonight.”

The picture showed a nondescript building that might have been anywhere in the city. Moxie would never have recognized it were it not something she saw every day. She frowned. “That’s just across the street from the _Punctilio_. How did you...are you sure about this?”

“No,” Ellington said with a smile. “But I trust my source. He’s gotten word that one of the Snickets is following a story, and has been visiting this building every night so far this week.”

“It can’t be a coincidence, that one of them is that close.” Moxie hesitated, trying to push down her hopes, but they rose in swirling patterns around the cafe table with the steam from her tea. “Maybe, while we’ve been looking for them—maybe they’ve been looking for us.”

Ellington tucked the photograph back into her bag. “Maybe. I suppose there’s only one way to find out. Tell me, are you free tonight, Ms. Mallahan?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updating this! My apologies for the lengthy delay; hopefully there won't be such a long wait in between chapters again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice follows Moxie and company to the library in search of answers; Moxie and Ellington catch a Snicket.

“I know it’s not much,” Pecuchet began apologetically. “Nothing like the libraries they have in the City. My brother and I have been working to expand it ever since—well.” He looked around, as though the library he saw was a very different place from the one they stood in now. “At times it seems that good libraries, like good people, are plagued with misfortune. But as an associate of mine used to say, in every library there is a single book that can answer the question that burns like a fire in the mind.”

“Do you think they were right?” Bea asked.

Squeak and Kellar entered the library, followed by Moxie. “Not always, maybe—but often enough. The location of the Baudelaires may not be in one of these books, but sometimes you have to find what you need to get what you need.”

She turned down an aisle of shelves, Squeak and Pecuchet following her. Kellar smiled at Bea. “I’ll show you how to navigate the library’s cataloguing system, and then our research can begin.”

Bea attempted to return the smile, but her mind was full of so many questions that she doubted even a library could douse their flames. “Who was he? The associate.”

She watched as Kellar turned and, without a word, walked away. But he was back a moment later, holding a volume she knew well, and one that she’d already encountered since washing ashore. She took it from him, tracing the letters on the cover. “The author. Lemony Snicket. You...you all know him?”

“I’m afraid that’s the wrong question, Beatrice.” Kellar gently retrieved the tome, flipping through until he reached the end, where a letter appeared to have been reprinted. “The question you should be asking is who was his editor?”

 

* * *

 

Moxie Mallahan was, by all accounts, a truly remarkable woman. At twelve years old, she  helped uncover a villainous plot threatening her town. At thirteen, she revived the town’s newspaper as editor-in-chief, providing jobs a well as free and accurate news. By nineteen, before she left, she had a hand in every corner of Stain’d-by-the-Sea. She could type seventy words per minute, recite at length from _The Portable Dorothy Parker_ , and play a perfect game of bowling. In short, Ms. Mallahan was many things—but patient, Ellington Feint was discovering, was not one of them.

“Are you sure this is the right building?”

It was the eighth time Moxie had asked, and she didn’t really need an answer, but Ellington gave a curt “yes” regardless, followed by a lightly threatening reminder that, in potentially dangerous situations, silence was more of a _necessity for not dying_ than a virtue. The stillness of the room wasn’t broken by a response, however, but by a door opening across from where the two women stood.

Moxie's breath caught in her throat. She recognized his frame, his profile, the shock of hair that had always looked disheveled even when he'd just combed it, even when she'd just combed it for him because he was about to dart out the door without doing so.

For a moment, it was worth it. Everything she'd endured in this city was worth it, because he was back. When she whispered his name, it came out as a statement, not a question. "Lemony."

Then the moment passed, and the world shifted along a faultline somewhere in the crack of her assumptions. As the man looked at her, she saw that his eyes were darker than Lemony's, that his face was narrower, his nose too sharp. It was like looking at Lemony with all the edges sharpened.

"Who are you, and what do you want with my brother?"

"Your brother?" Moxie was again hit with the thought that she knew almost nothing about the man she'd spent so long searching for. She and Lemony had only known each other for a matter of months, and that was years ago. _A brother. He has a brother._ When it came down to it, Moxie knew more about Ellington than Lemony had ever confided in her. Ellington—

Moxie spun around, realizing that her shadow had abandoned her. Ellington was back near the door to the room. Like Moxie, she seemed to be studying the stranger. But there was recognition on her face.

"Jacques?"

The man started. Moxie's eyes flickered between the two figures. Maybe she didn’t know anything about Ellington, either. "Do you _know_ him?"

"No." The stranger—Jacques—answered in her stead, balancing a frown that was more confusion than anything. "At least, _I_ don't know _her_."

Ellington stepped forward, her face the mask Moxie always found so infuriating. "We've never met. But we have friends in common."

The man—Jacques—paused, as if running through a mental list of all his friends. It didn't take long. "Lemony?" he hazarded, with a sideways glance at Moxie.

Ellington shook her head. "Close. Kit."

Jacques acknowledged her response with a slow nod. "Ohhhkay," he said, breathing out the first syllable. "When you say 'friends in common' and 'Kit,' you're going to have to clarify for me. Do you mean actual friends, or are you here to kill me?"

"Are you sure it's not both?" Ellington smiled, and in that moment Moxie understood Jacques' worries. After all, she had spent a good part of her childhood fretting that Ellington would betray Lemony and turn them all over to Hangfire. Which she had, more or less, but that was no more her fault then Hangfire's death was Lemony's fault. That is to say, it was absolutely her fault, but circumstances had been teetering on the dire end of extenuating.

The sound of Jacques' laughter jarred against the atmosphere of the room. "No. No, I'm not. Knowing some of Kit's friends..."

"Look, we're definitely not here to kill you. We're not here for you at all. We're looking for your siblings. Both of them." Moxie held her hands up in a universal sign of goodwill that didn't seem to do much to placate Jacques.

"Yeah, well, you're not the only ones. Half the time I don't know where either of them are, and the other half of the time I don't even know where I am."

"Which half is it now?"

"I'll just say this: I do know where I am." Jacques strode towards the exit opposite Moxie, pausing before a window that some careless librarian had left ajar. "And it's not where I want to be."

Both Moxie and Ellington lunged towards him as he turned again; both knew that the third Snicket was their greatest hope for finding the other two. Both lunged, but neither one was quick enough. Neither one needed to be, of course; Jacques never made it to the door. Before either of the women had moved more than a step, his eyes were widening and his legs were giving in and Jacques Snicket was falling to the floor, a poisonous dart sticking from the back of his neck.

The wind moaned against the open window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...hopefully there won't be such a long wait in between chapters again," I said. But hope is like a candle in the wind, as an associate of mine might say—bright, warm, and seldom reliable.
> 
> Or in other words, my apologies for the year-long delay. In all honestly, it might well happen again.
> 
> A solid 90% of this chapter has been written for about two years now (it was actually one of the first scenes I started for this story), and after watching season two of the Netflix show, I was struck by a desire to actually get around to posting some of my writing with Jacques. Who, I feel inclined to warn you, is based solely off of the books and bears little resemblance to Netflix's Jacques. But regardless, and despite the aforementioned unreliability of the word, I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> (Additionally, I know I haven't been responding to recent [a word which here means "received any time over the past year or so"] comments, but I really appreciate everyone who left one—thank you all so much!)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice and Moxie talk about a certain author; Moxie and Ellington become further acquainted with Jacques Snicket.

As often happens when one is occupied with particularly intense research, Beatrice found time slipping away. Of course, this also happens when your time is entirely free of newspaper clippings and reference manuals, but to the young girl her search for the Baudelaire siblings seemed to be driving the clocks at a faster pace than usual. Despite her worries, however, she felt more at ease than she had since her quest began. After a week in Stain’d-by-the-Sea, the whole town still seemed intent on welcoming and aiding her, providing everything from mid-morning snacks to information about currents in the month she’d lost the Baudelaires. She had moved into a spare room in the mayor’s home, as Kellar had thought she might be more comfortable among other children (of which Jake and Mayor Cleo Knight had three, all of whom were very amicable). That hadn’t stopped both Moxie and Kellar from dropping in to see her every day, in addition to their ongoing assistance in research.

Today, Moxie had brought the book with her. She had read this earlier draft of _A Series of Unfortunate Events_ enough times that the likelihood of her having missed any clues about the  Baudelaires’ case was slim, but Beatrice had asked to see it again.

The girl trailed a finger across a line of ink, flipping pages, trying to decipher the half-cursive of a note on the banker who’d botched so many guardian placements for her family. "What's he like?"

Moxie tugged at the corner of her hat, avoiding the girl's gaze. "Arthur Poe?"

Beatrice frowned, arching her eyebrows in a way that reminded Mozie very strongly of a certain remarkable woman. "You know who I mean."

"He's..." Moxie sighed, trying to formulate thoughts that had only grown more scattered over time. "He's everything you'd expect, from his books, and then nothing like it all. He's smart, to be sure, although there's plenty he doesn't know. ‘When to stop’ being foremost on the list. He's got both the best and the worst sense of self-preservation I've ever known, somehow, and is so scared of everything that it comes off as bravery. He's not the villain some people paint him as, but I don't know if I can really call him noble. He used to be, I think. When we were kids."

Beatrice was silent for a moment. "What happened?"

The woman opened her mouth, hesitated, considered her phrasing. "It all went up in flames."

Thinking about what Kellar had said to her before, Beatrice asked another question. “Did he write any more books?”

This time, it was Moxie’s turn to pause. “Yes,” she answered eventually. “None that would help you, or I would have shared them already, I promise. They were reports, originally, for his organization. A record of what transpired during his apprenticeship. But they were never published.”

“Why not?” Beatrice pushed.

“Because he left it to the discretion of his editor, and she was tired of ghosts.”

 

* * *

 

There was a brief moment where Moxie and Ellington stared down at the body on the floor, then across at each other with looks that carried the unspoken "Did you—"s and "Of course not"s and "I wasn't even at the proper angle!"s to their inevitable conclusions: "Who did? Are they still watching? Is he dead?"

The moment scattered, and the women did likewise. Ellington came at the window from the side, closing it and jerking away. Moxie dropped to the floor, sliding over to Jacques. He was breathing, which gave her license to do the same. Sighing out an exhalation of relief, she looked up. Ellington had moved back in front of the pane now that the glass provided some level of protection. She shook her head as Moxie caught her eye. "It could have come from any one of the windows across the street, or even the opposite rooftop. Jacques—is he—"

"He's fine." Moxie frowned. "For now, at least. I don't know what was on the dart. I'm no chemist." Not for the first time she wished Cleo was here with her.

Ellington closed her eyes, just for a moment. “We need to move. Whoever shot him could be heading here now.”

“Or have associates who are already in the building,” Moxie added. “We may not just be able to walk out the front door.”

“Who said anything about the front door?”

Moxie grumbled something about unnecessarily cryptic comments before carefully collecting the unconscious Jacques in her arms. “Alright, then. I can carry him. Carting around a typewriter throughout your formative years does wonders for your physical strength. You focus on our escape route, since you seem to have one in mind.”

Ellington nodded—she did. She led Moxie out through the door Jacques had entered, down a hall reminiscent of a frightening film that Ornette was particularly fond of but Moxie hadn’t cared for. There she paused before a set of elevator doors.

Shifting Jacques’ weight, Moxie glanced back the way they had come. “Most buildings have signs posted about taking the stairs in an emergency. This seems to qualify.”

“I agree.” The woman began pushing the up and down buttons of the elevator in succession, something you should never do unless attempting to unlock a secret door. There was a ding, and the elevator slid open.

“It’s fake,” Moxie said, almost letting the Snicket she carried slip as the elevator revealed itself to be a stairwell in disguise. “Or—what’s that one synonym for fake?”

“Fortunate, in this case.” They made their way down the stairs and out the door at the bottom, which led into a side alley.

Moxie propped Jacques against the wall. “Now what? My apartment is too far to walk with a sleeping Snicket, at least if we don’t want to draw attention. And we can’t stand around out here for long. Should we head for the closest trolley stop? Hail a taxi?”

“Not all taxi drivers are as benign as the ones in Stain’d-by-the-Sea, especially in this city,” Ellington said.

It was the first time Moxie had heard her mention the town. Her pulse quickened, counting the miles of train tracks leading back home, back to her family, her friends. Her associates.

She leaned out of the alley, looking at the cars parked across the street, outside her own place of work. Her heart slowed to its proper speed.

It seemed that a certain journalist was working late.

***

 “Thank you again, Eleanora,” Moxie said as she and Ellington pulled Jacques from the car.

“Of course, of course! I’m _always_ happy to help. But next time you’re at a party, keep an eye on your friend—and invite me!” She laughed and pulled back onto the street.

They managed to get Jacques up to the apartment without further incident, draping him across Moxie’s rather dreadful futon before retreating to the kitchen to examine the dart at the counter. A small insignia seemed to have been etched into it. Moxie held it up to the light. “What is that?”

"That would be a gift from one of Kit's friends."

Both of the women jumped, whirling to find that Jacques had quickly and quietly awoken (or perhaps been awake for some time already). He still laid where they had left him, but his eyes were sharp.

“Or at least, that’s what I assume. I could be wrong.” He shrugged his shoulders, wincing.

Ellington let out a small huff of laughter. “First time I’ve heard a Snicket say _that_.”

Moxie, however, was more concerned with the rest of his statement. "So when you asked if we were trying to kill you—"

"There was a measure of validity to the question, yes. Although in all fairness, the person whom I suspect is not Kit's friend so much as a former friend. Or former partner, maybe, with both the romantic and bank-robbing connotations of the word—I've  never really understood that relationship. Every few months she decides that he can't be trusted and they fall away from each other, but then something will burn down or someone will be assassinated or Lemony will almost drown, _again_ , and we'll all band together. Olaf included. And then everything's fine until it's not."

Jacques trailed off, seeming to fixate on a point just beyond Moxie's shoulder. He closed his eyes, as though he didn't like what he saw. "He likes to make an attempt on my life every so often. Just to keep me sharp. I don't think he's really trying, of course; he could do a much better job if he wanted. It's just that Olaf's idea of a great joke involves me getting hospitalized. Or Lemony. He never cared for Lemony—but then again, the same could be said for a number of people. Lemony has more enemies than he does friends." He grimaced. "I try not to have too many of either."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Poorly," the volunteer admitted.

“You’re very talkative for someone who was shot with a poison-tipped projectile only to awaken in a stranger’s home,” Ellington said affably.

He smiled warmly. “I happen to enjoy small talk, and I was taught that it’s a good way to buy time while gathering information.”

“So what information have you gathered?” Moxie asked. She was struck by the thought that dragging a Snicket into her apartment was perhaps not the safest of plans.

“Well, Ellington Feint, Moxie Mallahan,” Jacques began, nodding at each one in turn, “mostly, the fact that I can’t move my arms or legs, which I’m afraid is the main reason I’m still imposing myself on your company.”

Moxie could practically hear Jake’s gasped “Egads!” from behind her. She shook the thought away. “You know who we—of _course_ you do. You’re a Snicket.”

“Yes, the incredible powers of induction are a family trait. Also, your name is on that ceramic mug.” He nodded to the coffee table next to the futon. “And Ellington, Kit told me all about you. It took me a little while to make the connection, but once you said her name I began running down the list. It’s not a long one, and I would have recognized most of the people on it, unless you were in disguise.”

"In disguise?" Moxie picked up the incriminating mug and grabbed two more from a cupboard. She wondered how long her tea supplies would last if she kept brewing it for questionable acquaintances.

Jacques sighed. "You'd be surprised how often it's applicable."

“Did Lemony ever—” She cut herself off. She didn’t want to finish the question. It made sense that Kit had told Jacques about Ellington, had described her well enough that Jacques could recognize her from the stories alone. After all, from what little Ellington had said, it seemed the two of them had spent more time together than she and Lemony ever had.

The man’s expression softened, some of the sharpness brushing out of focus so that he looked even more like his brother than when Moxie had first seen him. “Of course, he told me about you as well. About all of his associates in Stain’d-by-the-Sea. Lemony is...well, he’s not as fond of small talk as I am, and tends to guard his thoughts closely unless it’s in writing. But yes, he told me about you.” He shook his head, perhaps just testing the slow return of feeling to his body, perhaps trying to dislodge the weight of what _exactly_ Lemony had said about his apprenticeship. “So did Josephine, actually—I don’t know if you remember her, but she visited your town briefly. Several members of our organization were there during that time, and all of them were impressed. By all accounts, you and your friends are noble people.”

Moxie heard the slightest sound from Ellington, an off-key inhale, the sound of someone who was guarding their thoughts closely. She took the mugs from Moxie and set about boiling water—it seemed that she remembered where everything was. Moxie watched her for a moment before responding.

“Yes. They are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating twice in the span of a few days after not updating for over a year? Well, I'm nothing if not consistent in my inconsistency.


End file.
